


Precedent

by strawberriesandtophats



Series: No such things as stability (only flux) [7]
Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett
Genre: Boots on desks, Canon Disabled Character, Genderfuckery, Hijinks & Shenanigans, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-30
Updated: 2020-09-30
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:46:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26737591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strawberriesandtophats/pseuds/strawberriesandtophats
Summary: Sitting down in Vimes’ much-patched office chair and putting his boots on top of the table was utterly delightful. Especially when he could rifle through some of the more interesting documents on his desk and drink his still-warm coffee-spiked cocoa.
Relationships: Sybil Ramkin/Havelock Vetinari/Samuel Vimes
Series: No such things as stability (only flux) [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1758511
Comments: 14
Kudos: 34





	Precedent

So much of what it meant to be a Patrician was to bear witness to the workings of the city. To stay with the people of the city as they moved through their lives, making sure that the city kept on working like the grandest machine they had ever been able to imagine.

Certainly, it was a machine that sometimes went clang. And often had to replace some of its cogs and wheels, but it was operating relatively smoothly on a day-to-day basis.

Other Patricians had not devoted their lives to observing the city, not as the current one had. They had been content to hoard power and wealth, until the very end. They had not been interested in making the city a better place, only to secure their status at the very top of the hierarchy.

Lord Vetinari had spent the morning reading and signing a mountain of paperwork, agreeing to see to it that an old bridge would be replaced with a much sturdier one, allowing more traffic. This was a sensible path to take. So was signing a go-ahead note from various Guilds, who had a hand in renovating a hot-chair place which had burned down fifteen times so that it would become a Brindisian restaurant.

It had been a treat to watch as Rufus Drumknott, usually so calm and collected, had sharpened his pencils to a killing edge when the Postmaster had sat down in the antechamber, the proceeded to quietly fantasize about murder as they listened to Lipwig charm everyone in the antechamber. When Lipwig had hurried into the Oblong Office, Drumknott had made a quiet humming sound that sounded just like the fall of a snowflake that would set an avalanche going.

It had been a good, productive meeting.

Mostly because Lord Vetinari felt like eating banged grains as Lipwig utterly failed to charm Drumknott, an endeavor which just made Drumknott so livid that his ears flushed pink. Lipwig had practically fled the room, leaving Mr. Fusspot and his bag of toys and clothes inside. It was quite a cheering sight, really, to see that Lipwig felt as if he was being kept on his toes. It meant that he would be more efficient and prone to attention-grabbing shenanigans, but that was only to be expected of such an individual. 

It was good to step out into the sunshine, with Mr. Fusspot’s leash in one hand and his cane in the other, making his way down the street. People moved aside when they saw him, doffing their hats or smiling at his dog.

The support from his cane and his tall boots so that his ankles would not wobble kept him steady as he waited for Mr. Fusspot to stop sniffing the air above a butcher’s shop. Inside, the butcher gave him a little wave, then signed that they hoped that he was having a good day. He signed back his thanks, that he was.

His dress did not sweep the cobblestones, but it was the one that had skulls embroidered on the hem so that even if he was wearing his greatcoat, it was still clear that he was very properly dressed in black as an Assassin should be.

It took him longer than it had just five years ago, to get to the small public park. The flowers and grass swayed in the mild breeze as he sat down on one of the benches, resting his leg.

The new medication was working far better than the old one had done, leaving him able to go longer distances on foot instead of being confined to short walks in the Palace gardens. He was still in pain, but the heavy drum of it underneath his skin was not so bad that it left him with no choice but to lie down in the afternoons in between meetings.

He watched Mr. Fusspot run around, playing with a distinguished-looking poodle and throw himself into the air when trying to greet a massive wolf-hound. He did not propose marriage to the wolf-hound, possibly because the wolf-hound picked him up by the scuff of his neck and returned him to Lord Vetinari before that could become a reality.

Then it was only a short walk to Pseudopolis Yard, where he simply walked into the police station as effortlessly as if he did it every day. The hush that followed when the officers, suspects, criminals and others saw him, was entirely down to how sharp he looked today, he liked to think.

Certainly, it had nothing to do with the engagement ring on his finger, which had only appeared there last Octeday. The iconograph in the Times, along with the in-depth interview with an intensely professional Sarcharisssa about his engagement to Commander Vimes and Lady Sybil had caused quite the stir, it had to be said.

Sybil had done most of the talking, explaining how it had been a long courtship and how she had been shortly engaged to Vetinari when they had been younger, a quiet thing to make sure that she could focus on dragons and he could have a link to the aristocracy that would make his climb to becoming the ruler of the city. It hadn’t been that much of a change to simply…include Sam.

Vimes was still blushing, according to Sybil, full four days later.

That must have been some sort of record.

Climbing the stairs was a slow, if rewarding process as he gripped the rail with one hand held onto his cane with the other, grateful for his morning stretching routine and the fact that he had access to a wheelchair when walking become too tiresome. It was lunchtime, meaning that Vimes had gone out to sneak in a patrol while he went out to get something to eat.

Mr. Fusspot was enjoying himself downstairs, no doubt talking with Captain Angua.

Sitting down in Vimes’ much-patched office chair and putting his boots on top of the table was utterly delightful. Especially when he could rifle through some of the more interesting documents on his desk and drink his still-warm coffee-spiked cocoa.

There was a different kind of pleasure in seeing Vimes stop in his tracks in the doorway, holding a pizza box and no cutlery at all. And then winking at him, knowing that he could not only see the boots on his desk, but the suggestion of a lacy slip underneath his dress.

Vetinari allowed himself to wink, if only to see the blush on Vimes’ face grow dark and him to slam down the pizza box on the desk. And close the door behind him.

“Ah, Vimes,” Vetinari said with practiced ease. “Good afternoon to you.”

“Is it?” Vimes asked, glaring at the boots.

“It’s going to be,” Vetinari said, leaning back in the chair. He did not remove the boots.

And it was.


End file.
